


Hands-on Policing

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Angst, F/M, PG-13 - Blue Cortina, Time Period: 1981-2006 (Life on Mars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-31
Updated: 2008-08-31
Packaged: 2019-01-20 19:21:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12439914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: Touching moments for Alex and Gene – can they drop their guard?





	1. First Contact

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).

_November 1981_

 

 

Police Constable Sharon Granger was back at work after a month off, recovering from her close encounter with a pen knife blade. Content – for the time being, at least – to stick within the purlieu of the CID office, she was wading through a bucketful of filing, sorting and clearing. 

 

 

Working in CID alongside her boyfriend DC Chris Skelton and the team under the fierce eye of DCI Gene Hunt, Shaz Granger was little more than a clerk in a uniform, but a few weeks earlier she’d thrown herself into danger, chasing after an armed and desperate man who’d been waving a gun at her two senior officers. She’d tackled him and fallen on the Swiss army knife he’d been holding. 

 

 

‘All right, Shaz?’ DS Ray Carling ruffled her hair as he wandered past. Ray hadn’t approved of Shaz insinuating herself between him and his sidekick Chris; in fact he’d bloody hated it, missing no opportunity to get in some sarky jibe at her expense. But when they thought she was dead, it hit Ray like a boot in the ribs. He’d been shamed by Shaz’s courage when he and Chris were left flat-footed, too many yards behind her and too late to save her. If it hadn’t been for DI Drake’s persistance in trying to resuscitate her, Shaz would have died there on the muddy tarmac, watched in helpless silence by a bunch of hard men. 

 

 

Shaz shook her hair back into place, a shy grin lighting her face. ‘Morning, Sarge – there’s a pot of tea in the kitchen.’

 

 

‘Any biscuits left, Shaz?’ said Ray, altering course. 

 

 

‘Fly cemeteries, sarge,’ said the demure Londoner. Ray looked back at her. ‘What?’ He looked disgusted. 

 

 

‘Garibaldis,’ Shaz assured him. Ray looked relieved, and scuttled off in search of nectar and ambrosia. The Guv had taken Chris with him to see a couple of witnesses, so Ray could have his piece in peace. Mug in one hand and small stack of biscuits in the other, Ray weaved back to his desk and settled down to his break. As he supped his tea, Ray looked across the office at DI Drake, not a hair out of place, every eyelash perfect, perm bent over her paperwork. _Posh totty, cool as bloody ice, and mad as a box of frogs. But tough, brave, clever. Lovely tits, too. Nice arse, looks good in prozzie clobber and was pretty convincing acting the tart. I’d give her a warm hand on her entrance_. 

 

 

Alex Drake caught Ray smirking and wondered what unsavoury thought was running through the sergeant’s reptilian brain. Probably best not to know, she thought.

 

 

‘Shaz?’ she called softly. The young PC came over at once, always happy to oblige the DI who saved her life. ‘Yes, Ma’am?’

 

 

‘We’ve got this wretched fraud case to sort out – the timber exporters at Shadwell. I need a forensic accountant to give me a quantum.’

 

 

‘Dingwalls, Ma’am? I thought you’d given that back to uniform. What’s a quantum? Does SOCO have accountants?’

 

 

‘A quantum is an amount, Shaz. The forensic accountant goes through the books and the whole business with a fine-toothed comb and comes up with a set of figures which we can use in court. Stock levels, turnover, margins, missing profits. Real numbers, not what the fradulent lot have cooked up. And no, this isn’t to do with SOCO – we should have a list of accountancy firms that can provide us with a forensic bean-counter.’

 

 

“OK, Ma’am. I’ll get on to it.’ Shaz straightened up and winced, putting a hand to her neck in obvious pain. ‘You OK, Shaz?’ asked Alex. 

 

 

‘Fine, Ma’am. Neck’s a bit sore, that’s all.’ She smiled at the DI and went back to her desk, where she sat rubbing her neck while she flicked through a card index, looking for a phone number.

 

 

Alex came back from lunch with a salad box and went to the kitchen for a fork, to find Shaz at the sink, swallowing tablets with a mouthful of water. ‘Neck still bad, Shaz?’ 

 

 

‘Fraid so, Ma’am. It’s not usually this bad, not so early in the day.’

 

 

Here, Shaz, sit down a minute.’ Alex pushed the young PC into a chair. ‘Is it OK if I have a feel of your neck?’ 

 

 

Shaz looked up at Alex, unsure of what she meant. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

 

 

‘I might be able to help a bit, make it a bit easier for you.’ Alex’s long fingers probed beneath the blue-black jacket collar, at the top of Shaz’s spine. As she worked gently, she watched for Shaz’s body language to see where it hurt her. As Alex pressed down on the muscles around the neck vertebrae, Shaz flinched, her breath hissing. 

 

 

‘Sorry.’ Alex continued to probe, but more gently. Her fingertips moved along Shaz’s collar bone, pressing and squeezing, testing the muscle tissue. Up each side of the neck below her ears, then down the line of her backbone. ‘How does that feel, Shaz?’

 

 

‘It’s all quite sore, Ma’am, but the worst bit was where you first touched.’

 

 

Alex moved away and leant against the counter top. ‘How long has it been like this?’

 

 

‘Well... everything hurt when I was hospital, but everything’s pretty much got better except my neck.’

 

 

‘Have you asked your doctor about it?’ 

 

 

‘Yeah, but she said it was normal and it would sort itself out. She says it’s quite common after CPR because the body’s given quite a bashing in the process. And I was on the road, so I got pretty bruised.’ 

 

 

‘So it’s actually all my fault.’ Alex said with a smile.

 

 

Shaz laughed softly. ‘Yes, Ma’am. But I forgive you. It was in a good cause.’ 

 

 

Alex squeezed Shaz’s shoulder affectionately. Construct or not, the girl was a treasure, and Alex had been intensely grateful not to lose her.

 

 

‘They did an x-ray anyway, and there was no problem. She said it was just muscular.’

 

 

‘Good.’ Alex smiled at her. ‘Then I can help, if you agree.’

 

 

‘Yes, please, Ma’am. That would be great.’

 

 

‘OK. At the end of the shift, then, once the others have gone to the pub.’

 

 

*********

 

 

‘Beer o’clock, gentlemen.’ Ray pushed back his chair, rose to his feet and led the charge to Luigi’s, bang on six o’clock. None of them so much as glanced at the two women in the room, and within thirty seconds Alex and Shaz had the place to themselves. 

 

 

‘Right, then, Shaz. Ready?’ Alex motioned the younger woman towards the kitchen, and followed her in. Shaz took her jacket off, untied her cravat and undid the top four buttons of her blouse. ‘Is that enough?’

 

 

Alex pulled out a chair for her. ‘Here. Come and sit.’

 

 

PC Granger sat, as instructed, and DI Drake pulled the collar wide open to expose her neck. ‘I haven’t got any oils with me, but I can make a start without them and work with oil from tomorrow,’ said Alex, resting one palm at the top of Shaz’s spine and the other on her shoulder.

 

 

‘Tomorrow, Ma’am?’ said Shaz, who’d not thought beyond this session.

 

 

‘If I work on you for 15 minutes at the end of each shift this week, I reckon we can pretty much sort this out for you. Working with a bit of oil is better – unless you’re allergic...?’

 

 

‘Oh! No, don’t think so. Wow – I’m really grateful, Ma’am.’

 

 

‘You’re welcome. Let’s make a start. If it gets too much, and you want me to stop or slow down, just say and I’ll stop immediately.’

 

 

‘I’ll be fine, Ma’am.’

 

 

‘Well, there’s good pain, which feels like it’s doing good, and there’s bad pain, which just feels wrong and horrible. Only you will know the difference, so I’m relying on you to tell me – make sense?’

 

 

‘Yes, Ma’am, promise.’

 

 

‘OK, so take some deep breaths and close your eyes.’ Shaz complied, and immediately Alex felt her relax a little. She set to work, pressing, kneading and squeezing the muscle beneath the skin with firm pressure, moving inch by inch across Shaz’s skin. ‘See if you can watch this in your mind’s eye,’ she said in a low, hypnotic voice. ‘Watch what happens to your body as I work. Watch as the muscles are stretched and squeezed under my hands; see them squeezed like a sponge so that the blood is pushed out of the muscle fibres into the veins, taking all the toxins and the damaged cells with it. And then see the new blood rush in to fill out the fibres, flooding the cells with oxygen and all the nutrients they need to heal and restore themselves....’

 

 

Alex continued her commentary as she worked steadily and thoughtfully. Shaz’s head had gradually dropped forward as she fell under Alex’s spell, relaxing in the sensual bliss of healing touch.

 

 

‘Christ on a flaming bike! What are you two lesbians up to?’ Gene Hunt’s roar shattered the peace of the make-shift treatment room, and Shaz jumped like a gazelle, but was kept in her chair by Alex’s hands gripping her shoulders.

 

 

‘Shut up, Gene, and go away. I’m just giving Shaz...’

 

 

‘I can bloody well see what you’re giving her, and it’s not in the police training manual, Bollykecks.’ The outraged DCI bent at the waist to look PC Granger in the eye, but didn’t bother to lower his voice. ‘Well, Granger? What’s DI Drake doing to you?’

 

 

Shaz, too terrified and embarrassed to hold her ground, slithered sideways from the chair and fled.

 

 

Alex sighed as Gene straightened up and looked down his nose at her; she stared straight back at him with her most insolent, insubordinate, sod-you face, and waited for him to break the silence, unaware that Shaz and Chris were watching in horrified awe from the doorway.

 

 

‘Go on then, Drake – enlighten me.’

 

 

‘Mmmmm.... no.’ 

 

 

And giving him a sweet smile, Alex swept out of the office. Shaz scuttled after her, shadowed by Chris – neither of them wanting to be within fallout distance of the Guv as he went nuclear.

 

 

**********

 

 

‘How is it this morning, Shaz?’ Alex leant over the young WPC’s desk, her voice low – she didn’t want the others earwigging. 

 

 

‘It’s really stiff, Ma’am,’ she said, grimacing as she flexed her neck. ‘But it feels different, and the headache hasn’t come back.’

 

 

‘I’m sorry it’s still sore, but the change is good news. Do you want another session later?’

 

 

Shaz looked a bit shifty. ‘Yes – but...’

 

 

‘We can go somewhere else. The Guv isn’t exactly appreciative of the healing arts, is he?’ 

 

 

Their conspiratorial laughter reached the ears of the said individual, with predictable results.

 

 

‘Drake! A word...’

 

 

Alex raised one eyebrow, making Shaz giggle. 

 

 

‘DRAKE!’

 

 

***********

 

 

‘Right then, you mugwumps. Pub time. Last one there buys the Gene Genie’s drinks all night.’

 

 

DCI Hunt swaggered through the office and halted by his DI’s desk, where Alex sat poring over paperwork. ‘Is this you volunteering to put your hand in your pocket for my benefit, Bolly?’

 

 

‘Probably, Gene, yes. I’ve got a couple of things to sort out, but I’ll catch you up.’ She beamed up at him. ‘Don’t start without me.’

 

 

Gene glowered at her. ‘I might die of thirst waiting for you, Bolly. Don’t be long, or I’ll be back to fetch you, and a fireman’s lift is not a dignified exit for a detective inspector in Her Majesty’s Constabulary.’ He gave her a final glare and loped out of the office, his pack at his heels.

 

 

When the last echoes of CID footwear had died away, Shaz emerged from the file room, her elfin face split by a grin as she caught Alex’s eye. ‘I told Chris to distract him if he noticed I wasn’t there, Ma’am, so we should be safe for half an hour.’

 

 

Famous last words, thought Alex, twenty minutes later, as Chris put his head round the door. ‘Er, Ma’am, the Guv sent me to find you. He, er, said if I didn’t bring you back before he’d sunk the next pint he’d come over himself.’

 

 

Alex kept working on Shaz’s right shoulder. ‘And what did Mr Hunt say he’d do to us if that situation arose?’ 

 

 

Chris looked shifty. ‘Um... I’d rather not say, Ma’am. But it sounded, er, a bit embarrassing.’ He came a step closer. ‘Ma’am, can I watch?’

 

 

‘Are you having a perv, Chris, or are you actually interested?’

 

 

‘Oh, er, no, Ma’am. I mean yes, I’m really interested. Shaz told me last night what you’d been doing; it sounds amazing.’ 

 

 

‘Here then, Chris – let me show you.’ Alex moved to one side and let Chris stand behind his girl. ‘Don’t look so nervous,’ said Alex, soothingly. ‘It’s not difficult. Here, put a little bit of oil on your hands. Now watch what I do and follow me.’ 

 

 

With slow, firm pressure she ran her hand along Shaz’s shoulder and up the side of her neck to her ear, and repeated the movement, nodding to Chris that he should copy her. 

 

 

‘Shaz, how does that feel?’

 

 

‘Lovely, Ma’am! Chris could press a little bit harder,’ she said, then winced. ‘Not too much, darlin’. 

 

 

Chris stopped, scared of hurting his beloved Shazza. 

 

 

‘Don’t stop, Chris, it was lovely,’ Shaz urged him. Alex coached him some more, and together they worked on the young officer’s injury until there was a loud sniff from behind them. Chris jumped like a gazelle, Shaz was too bombed to care, and Alex looked round as she continued to work. Leaning against the door jamb, arms folded, head back, the Guv stood watching them, eyes glittering.

 

 

‘DC Skelton – do you remember what I said would happen if you failed your mission?’

 

 

Chris tried and failed to get a sentence out. ‘Um, y... er, Guv,’ he stammered.

 

 

‘And you, my esteemed Detective Inspector Pervy Knickers, remember what I said to you?’

 

 

‘Clearly, Mr Hunt. But as you can see, we are engaged in more healthy pursuits than shouting like children and necking beer by the hogshead,’ said Alex with her most irritating smile. ‘Perhaps you would care to join the lesson?’ 

 

 

At this suggestion, she felt Shaz stiffen beneath her hands, and noticed Chris freezing, too terrified to move. Gene didn’t budge. 

 

 

‘OK, Shaz, I think that’s it for tonight. Don’t forget to drink lots of water, and I’d go straight home to a hot bath and a warm bed.’ Alex patted her shoulder and let her go, almost laughing out loud at the speed with which the young couple vanished, a bit like her chances of surviving the evening, she mused.

 

 

Washing her hands at the sink, Alex could feel Gene’s eyes on her back. Well, on her arse, probably. She suddenly felt nervous, and couldn’t think why. She turned to face him, leaning back against the formica worktop.

 

 

‘What is your problem, Gene?’ she demanded, with the look that dared him to accept her challenge. Gene levered himself off the wall and moved across to stand in front of Alex, looking down at her in her stockinged feet, three inches shorter than usual. 

 

 

‘You’ve shrunk, Bolls.’

 

 

Alex shrugged. ‘Can’t do bodywork in heels, Gene.’

 

 

‘Bodywork? What’s that then – a new single?’

 

 

‘That’s ‘Body Talk’, Gene. Bodywork is what you’d call massage.’

 

 

‘Is that right? So you’re turning my kitchen into a massage parlour, DI Drake?’

 

 

Alex sighed and closed her eyes in exasperation before looking up at Gene with what she hoped was a neutral expression. ‘Do you actually want to know what we’re doing, or is this just one of your puerile attempts to wind me up?’

 

 

‘Oh, please, Bolly. Enlighten me.’ 

 

 

Alex examined his face, the picture of supercilious scepticism. She didn’t have the energy to fight her way through it. But this was Gene expressing interest – the best chance she’d have to break down some of his jurassic attitudes. He wouldn’t give her more. Another sigh escaped her.

 

 

‘What happens to... er, Trevor Brooking,’ she dug the name from her memory with a flourish, ‘when he gets an injury?’

 

 

Gene snorted. ‘Put down humanely, I hope. West Ham poof.’

 

 

Alex smiled, despite herself. ‘Well, a Manchester player, then. Ryan Giggs.’

 

 

‘Who?’

 

 

‘God! I don’t know – who’s playing for Man U these days?’

 

 

‘If you’re implying that those red bastards play football, you’re in error, Bolly. If you are attempting, in your feeble, girly, unsporting, soft southern ignorant way, to name a decent sportsman, try a name from Manchester City, which is a proper football club for a self-respecting Mancunian.’

 

 

He wasn’t going to help her. Alex gave up on football. ‘Alan Wells, then. You can’t say he was a poof. Olympic gold medal sprinter. All muscle and testosterone.’

 

 

‘I know who he is, Bolly. Scotsman, but I suppose he can’t help that. So what about him?’

 

 

This was exhausting. Alex took another deep breath – she needed all the oxygen she could drag into her lungs. ‘When he pulls a muscle, what does he do?’

 

 

‘Keeps going. He’s only got a hundred poxy yards to run.’

 

 

‘After the race, Gene, for god’s sake. How does he treat an injury?’ 

 

 

‘Painkillers and a night in front of the telly, like the rest of us.’

 

 

‘No.’ Alex spoke slowy and carefully to avoid losing her temper and clocking him one. ‘He will get physiotherapy. Won’t he?’

 

 

‘Yes, I suppose,’ Gene conceded.

 

 

‘And physio involves... what?’ Alex quizzed him.

 

 

‘Dunno. Ice packs, deep heat, exercises...’

 

 

‘Yes, all of those. And what else?’

 

 

Silence.

 

 

‘What else, Gene?’

 

 

Silence. 

 

 

Alex cocked an eyebrow at him, demanding an answer.

 

 

‘Massage,’ he muttered.

 

 

‘Thank you. Exactly right. Go to the top of the class, Mr Hunt.’

 

 

Gene suddenly found something on the floor of enormous interest, but dropping his head didn’t hide the flush on his cheeks. Alex reined in the sarcasm – she wanted to change his mind, not antagonise him. She put a hand on his arm. ‘Sit down for a minute, Gene.’

 

 

He complied, to Alex’s amazement. He really must be interested, and was prepared to give her a chance to explain. _Wow_ , she thought, and pulled a chair close to his. 

 

 

‘When Shaz was stabbed, it caused enormous clinical shock and a massive drop in blood pressure, which is why her heart stopped. When I was trying to resuscitate her...’ 

 

 

‘You didn’t just try, Bolls. You saved her life,’ said Gene, softly.

 

 

‘Yes... OK,’ said Alex, shyly. ‘And you saved mine.’ 

 

 

Their gaze met, and Alex reached out to squeeze Gene’s hand for a brief moment. The heat in his eyes sent the blood into her face as she relived the moment of coming back to consciousness to find his face close enough to kiss, his hand beneath her jaw, his body warming hers. 

 

 

The same image was clearly in his mind, too – she could see the intensity in his eyes as he remembered. She removed her hand, and spoke quickly, unprepared for this flash of feeling between them.

 

 

‘CPR is pretty brutal, and Shaz was lying on the road. She took quite a battering at the scene, and it was made worse by the chemical effect of the shock on her system. Then the anaesthetic, and the drugs afterwards – it’s no wonder that her body has reacted badly. She’s been in pain ever since, and getting terrible headaches – haven’t you noticed how quiet she’s been?’

 

 

Gene shifted in his chair, and muttered something inaudible.

 

 

‘I’m just trying to do something to help her. And of course Chris wants to know what he can do, too.’

 

 

There was a moment of silence. Gene was tracing circles on the table with one finger. 

 

 

‘So how does it work, then?’

 

 

‘Massage? In several ways.’ Alex took hold of her own arm to demonstrate, pressing her thumb into the fleshy pad of the forearm. ‘When you compress the soft tissue, it forces all the fluids out of the muscle cells – see? It goes white as the blood is squeezed out, taking all the waste with it and flushing it into the lymph system and eventually out through the kidneys.’

 

 

Gene was watching intently.

 

 

‘Then when you let go, fresh blood rushes back in. That’s the cleansing process.’

 

 

‘What, just squeezing?’ Gene was absorbed. 

 

 

‘Yup, it’s that simple. The body is a brilliant machine and repairs itself much of the time; all the massage is doing – like all medicine – is giving it a bit of help to heal itself. But there’s other stuff, too. By stroking with firm pressure, like this,’ she demonstrated on her own arm as Gene watched hungrily. ‘...you’re helping the knotted-up muscle fibres unravel themselves and regain their elasticity. And this helps pull the bones back into place, so they’re not pressing on nerves and grinding against each other. 

 

 

‘And, of course, it feels wonderful, and it’s the best way to soothe and relax. Think about stroking a cat, or any animal. Touch is the primary sense for all animals; it’s the first we gain when we’re born, and the last we lose when we die. It’s comfort, and love, and nurture, and healing.’ Alex glanced up at Gene for a second to find his eyes on her face. She dropped her gaze, unwilling to meet that burning look.

 

 

‘And before you say anything, there’s a crucial difference between what I’m talking about, which is safe, healing touch, and what you’re thinking about, which is sex. Touch has been stolen and adulterated by the sex industry – which is why we tend to use the word bodywork instead of massage.’

 

 

They both sat back and locked eyes. Gene’s face was shuttered, his eyes cold. ‘How do you know what I was thinking, Alex? You don’t give me much credit, do you?’

 

 

For a long moment, he glared at her, and Alex saw the hurt beneath his anger. ‘I’m sorry, Gene. That was unfair of me.’ She gave him a tentative smile and reached over to his hand, but Gene pushed back his chair and stood up before she could touch him. 

 

 

‘If you think you can rub some life back into WPC Granger so she’s of some use to this department, feel free. I’m off back to Luigi’s for a bit of sanity. Are you coming, DI Drake, or is an evening with us pig-ignorant bastard sex fiends too much to contemplate?’ 

 

 

Alex pulled on her boots and stood up. ‘I owe you a drink, remember?’

 

 

‘You owe me more than one drink, Bolly. And I intend to collect.’ Gene waved her out of the office ahead of him, and they headed for the warm smoky atmosphere of Luigi’s treatment room.


	2. Reaching Out

‘Ma’am? Could I have a quick word?’ Alex turned to see Sgt Watkins smiling at her. Carol Watkins was in her early forties, blonde, thin as a whippet and reputedly tougher than most of the men at Fenchurch East. It was a rarity to find her on CID soil, as she was kept as busy as a collie with three legs, shepherding plods on patrol.

 

 

‘Sgt Watkins – yes, of course,’ said Alex, with a quick glance to see what the Guv was doing. He didn’t like his world being invaded by uniforms or women – and plonks had the logarithmic irritation factor of being both. But DCI Hunt was engrossed in the _Sporting Life_ , so Alex reckoned the kitchen would be a safe enough place to talk.

 

 

‘Ma’am – I heard about what you did for WPC Granger...’

 

 

Alex smiled, realising what was coming. Since she’d sorted out Shaz’s bad neck with a few short sessions of massage, Shaz and Chris had been spreading the gospel that their DI was a miracle worker, faith healer and all-round goddess. The predictable result was a steady stream of police officers all begging for DI Drake’s ministrations. Most were genuine enough, but a couple of the men were either wind-up merchants or on the letch; Alex didn’t have too much trouble sussing them, and when she told them that Chris Skelton would be happy to tend to their aches and pains, they vanished back down their rat-holes faster than whisky chased beer down Ray Carling’s throat.

 

 

Alex waited for Carol Watkins to show her where the pain was, but the wiry sergeant surprised her. ‘... and for the others. Ted Carter says you fixed an ache that he’s had for months – and he wasn’t talking about Jimmy Skinner.’ Both women laughed – Skinner was an idle twat of a PC who was universally loathed.

 

 

‘So what I can for you, Carol?’

 

 

‘Oh, no, Ma’am – I’m fine, thanks. But I was thinking – there’s always someone off sick, either with an injury or some unspecified ailment that usually translates as Copper Blues.’

 

 

Alex perked up. This was promising. Sgt Watkins continued: ‘I don’t really know how it would work, but do you think it’s worth doing some kind of training session or demonstration, or something, to show people that massage could be a solution for things the doctor can’t fix?’

 

 

Alex was frowning, her mind racing. ‘God, Carol – that’s a bit advanced. I mean, you’re absolutely right, but we’d be laughed out of the building. Wouldn’t we?’

 

 

‘Maybe, Ma’am, but it’s worth a try. Sick notes cost us a fortune and give me a bloody nightmare trying to sort out shifts. It’s got to be worth a try – if you’re prepared to give it a go.’

 

 

‘Oh, I’m game,’ said Alex, grinning. ‘But we’ll need a guinea pig who’s got enough clout to convince the sceptics. A man, obviously. Senior as possible. No-one soft – not a desk jockey. Someone the plods respect, a bloke who can handle a bit of strife...’

 

 

‘Oi, Drake, what are you up to, and why?’ the tungsten tones of DCI Hunt sliced into their conversation; the two women turned to see the Manc Lion prowling towards them, his face a picture of misogyny. ‘Bloody women, hobnobbing. Are the City’s scum in bed asleep, sergeant? They must all be kipping very soundly if you have time to dance around your handbags in my overstretched department.’ Gene came to a halt in front of them, drew himself up to his full six feet and stuck both hands in his pockets, waiting for a response.

 

 

‘Hello, Gene,’ said Sgt Watkins, in a tired voice. 

 

 

‘Carol.’

 

 

Alex looked from one to the other, scenting history. But neither was giving anything away, and now wasn’t the time to probe. Later, thought Alex, later. 

 

 

‘Sgt Watkins was consulting me on a human resources issue, Guv,’ she told him.

 

 

‘What resources?’ Gene frowned.

 

 

‘Human res... the personnel department, Gene.’

 

 

‘More like the gossip department. Buzz off, Carol, there’s a good girl. We’ve got work to do, unlike you flatfooted lot next door.’

 

 

Sgt Watkins gave him a look that would have toasted ice, then turned to Alex with an evil smile. ‘What do you reckon, Ma’am?’

 

 

Alex darted a look at Gene, and just about kept a straight face. ‘Perfect,’ she said. Carol Watkins nodded at Gene and left, a hint of a laugh drifting back as she pushed through the double doors. 

 

 

The whiff of conspiracy did not pass Gene by, detective of twenty years standing that he was. ‘Drake...? he snarled.

 

 

But Alex, a bad smile on her face, was gone before he could catch her.

 

 

**************

 

 

By the following Tuesday Carol had set up the demonstration, with upwards of thirty people signed up for the session scheduled for the end of the shift on Thursday night. Alex was going to explain some basic bodywork theory and demonstrate on a guinea pig to show how easy, simple and effective a way it was to tackle the stresses and strains of a demanding job. 

 

 

But there wasn’t much point in preaching to the converted. Shaz and Chris were doing a great PR job at junior level, but if anything valuable was to be achieved, Alex needed to influence someone with a bit of clout. If she could convert a heathen, a positive Attila of a senior officer, she might make some inroads into this pre-Cambrian swamp of a police force. 

 

 

She took a deep breath, stood up and walked across to the Guv’s office, where Attila the Hunt was hard at work, doodling. He removed his feet from the desk, chucked the pad down on to it, and scowled up at Alex as though she’d interrupted his solution to Fermat’s Last Theorem. Alex took a sneaky look at the drawing on the pad – two knights jousting, one in black armour knocking the white knight off his mount. A steed with unfeasibly long legs. ‘Been knocked off your high horse, Guv?’ she teased.

 

 

‘Not me, love. I’m the bastard in black. Winning.’ Gene ripped the sheet off the pad and handed it to Alex. ‘Give that to Ray with my compliments, and tell him to stick it up...’ Gene paused for a nano-second, ‘...on the board. Now, what are you after, DI Bollykecks?’

 

 

Taking a deep breath, Alex gave her boss an uncertain little smile. Gene’s head snapped back. ‘I know that look, Drake. It comes just before something I won’t like. Something you know I won’t like. So I’ll save us both time and stomach acid by saying no now.’

 

 

He glowered at her, daring her to argue. Alex almost fell for it, opened her mouth to say something cutting, but remembered that she wanted a favour, and shut it again. She moved round and perched on the desk, as close to him as she dared. ‘I need your help, Gene,’ she said softly, confiding. 

 

 

Gene looked alarmed. ‘Bloody hell, Drake, now you’re really scaring me. What have you done?’

 

 

Alex smiled winningly. ‘Nothing, Gene, really. Promise.’

 

 

Gene looked, if anything, even more sceptical. ‘Spit it out, then, Bolls.’

 

 

‘Remember, a couple of weeks ago, I was telling you about bodywork?’

 

 

‘After I caught you and Skelton rubbing Granger up the right way? How could I forget? Don’t tell me – you’ve been dreaming about having my manly hands on your aching bod.’ There was a hint of a smirk on his face, and Alex could feel herself start to blush. But she couldn’t let herself rise to the bait, or her plans would be scuppered. 

 

 

She tutted, chiding him flirtatiously. ‘Really – Guv...’ and hit his arm softly with the back of her hand. Gene’s eyes narrowed, suspicious of such coy behaviour from his hard-as-nails DI. Alex, realising her performance wasn’t working, dropped the kitten act. She leaned on the desk, looking straight at him. ‘I’ve agreed to something that I’m not sure I can do. You could save my bacon.’

 

 

‘As per usual, Bolly.’

 

 

‘As ever, Gene,’ Alex conceded. Unsure of how best to get him on side, she hesitated. Gene pushed his chair back and got to his feet, looming over Alex, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He bent down and pushed his face within biting distance of her nose. She held her nerve and sat still, her eyes on his.

 

 

‘This is like drawing teeth, Bolly. Just tell me what you want, and then I’ll say no, and we can all get back to work.’ 

 

 

Alex blinked, and Gene straightened up. 

 

 

‘I want you to come to a training session I’m running on Thursday night. Please, Gene. Please?’

 

 

‘Training? What – circuit? weights? I quite fancy the idea of you in a leotard, Bolly, getting all sweaty.’

 

 

‘Nothing so energetic, Gene. Half an hour in the canteen, watching me do a bit of bodywork on a volunteer.’

 

 

‘Kinky. What do you want me to do?’

 

 

‘Just turn up. See if you can get the Super there.’

 

 

‘Super plays bridge on Thursdays. Well – the Super’s wife plays bridge. He plays dummy.’ Gene’s mouth twitched; Alex smiled.

 

 

‘No Super, then. Whoever you can get.’

 

 

‘What’s in it for me?’

 

 

‘My undying gratitude?’

 

 

‘Yes. And...?’

 

 

‘The satisfaction of helping a colleague? The pleasure of lifelong learning?’ Gene was looking distinctly underwhelmed. ‘Bottle of single malt?’ Alex said hopefully.

 

 

‘Now you’re talking.’ 

 

 

‘Deal?’ 

 

 

Alex held out her hand, and after a couple of seconds, Gene slid his hand into hers. ‘Deal.’

 

 

As Alex began to pull her hand away, Gene held it fast. ‘You’re not setting me up, are you, Bolly? Planning to make a fool of me? I would not appreciate that.’ He squeezed her hand, pulling her close, his eyes burning into hers. ‘I would not appreciate that at all. Bolly. Get me?’


	3. Hurting

A couple of hours later, Gene and Ray walked back in to the office after going to make an arrest. Gene was clutching his right wrist and looking murderous when he crashed through the double doors and stalked through the office.

 

 

The problem, one Dora Fanourakis, was a woman of a certain age whose husband Costas had been caught smuggling cigarettes. She had apparently objected when Gene told Ray to read her husband his rights and bang the cuffs on him.

 

 

‘Dora didn’t care much for the Guv’s chat-up lines,’ said Ray, once DCI Hunt was safely ensconced in his office, door shut, three fingers of scotch in a glass. The rest of the team were agog; Alex stayed at her desk with her head bent over paperwork but she was earwigging intently to Ray’s story.

 

 

‘I was trying to cuff the hairy-arsed bastard and he was shouting his Mediterranean mouth off, waving his arms around like they do, and being generally uncooperative.’ Ray was loving the attention. 

 

 

‘Then his missus comes flying out the bedroom screeching and caterwauling, and starts laying into the Guv with a stiletto.’

 

 

Alex’s head came up then, at the thought of a long, narrow knife favoured by assassins being wielded against Gene. But Ray went on: ‘The old bag must have looked a right slapper in them heels, all of four inches and bright scarlet – it was a handy weapon in her hands – bloody lethal it was. The Guv was trying to fend her off while I was dragging laughing boy to the car, and Dora got in a sly shot, smashing that heel into the Guv’s arm like a pro.’ Ray was in bits, laughing at his own story amidst guffaws from his colleagues.

 

 

‘I thought she’d broken his arm for him but he says not. Must bloody hurt though – I had to drive back so it must have been bad. He’ll be no bloody good to the darts team for the next few matches.’

 

 

The door to the inner sanctum opened and DCI Hunt emerged, his face sour enough to curdle honey, and the entire team suddenly found terribly urgent things to do. The Guv turned towards Alex. ‘Drake – a word.’

 

 

Gene didn’t look as though he were in the mood for dissent, so Alex scuttled round her desk and into his sanctum without a murmur. 

 

 

‘What have you dug up on the Dingwalls fraud? I’m getting earache from the Super. His brother-in-law is on the board of directors, and is kicking up rough about police incompetence. So please tell me you can give the Super chapter and verse on the shifty bastards in Shadwell, and while you’re at it, shine a light on CID’s competence in commercial fraud?’

 

 

‘Yes, Guv. I got the report from the forensic accountants this morning – it’s not looking good for the company’s financial director, though. He had to have known what was going on – either that or he was grossly negligent in his fiduciary duties.’ She caught the look on Gene’s face. ‘Stupid or lazy, Guv,’ she amended.

 

 

‘It’s all right, Drake. I know you think I’m pig ignorant, but I do understand rudimentary English,’ he snapped. ‘I need a drink,’ he muttered, and made for the whisky bottle. Unscrewing the cap with his left hand, he tried to pick up the bottle, but it slipped from his grasp, bounced off the edge of the filing cabinet and landed on the carpet tiles, spilling the precious liquid over his shoes and the nylon floor. Unleashing an impressive string of curses, Gene recovered the bottle with his left hand, and sloshed generous measures into two glasses. He tried carefully to pick up a glass in his right hand, but stopped when he realised he couldn’t grip it properly. 

 

 

‘Have you seen the doctor, Gene?’

 

 

‘I’m not a bloody fairy.’

 

 

‘But, Guv...’

 

 

‘Leave it. I’m fine. Bloody women, making a fuss.’ Gene handed Alex a glass, knocked back his own drink in one gulp, and retreated behind his desk. ‘What’s this financial director’s name?’

 

 

‘David McElhinney.’

 

 

Gene dropped his head in resignation. ‘Flaming bloody marvellous. Oh, deep joy. That’s really made my day, DI Drake. You’re telling me that I’ve got to inform Superintendent Dorney that his wife’s brother is a crook?’

 

 

Gene tilted his head back to look up at his DI with an expression of utter weariness. Alex felt for him. Had it been almost anyone else, and almost anywhere else, she’d have given him a hug. But hugging DCI Gene Hunt in sight of the gossip gannets of CID – even if he’d accept such a gesture – was not something she could contemplate. Gene was not the touchy-feely sort, and Alex could only imagine the form his rejection would take. An earful of abuse, for sure, and she’d never hear the end of it, from him or from the Cro-Magnon misfits watching from the other side of the glass. Shame, since she liked the idea of an armful of Gene more than she’d admit to a living soul. Hard enough to admit to herself. She dragged her mind back to policing.

 

 

‘It’s not just the FD, Guv. I reckon there must be at least two of the directors involved, plus the distribution manager and some of the drivers. It’s been going on for over a year, and they’ve siphoned off nearly half a million quid.’

 

 

‘Bleeding Nora. It makes me wonder if Harry Woolf didn’t have a point.’

 

 

‘Guv?’

 

 

‘Forget it – ancient history, Bolls. Come on, I have had enough for one day.’ Gene got up and grabbed his coat, before ushering Alex out ahead of him.

 

 

‘Um, I’ll follow you over,’ said Alex, looking at her laden desk.

 

 

‘No, you bloody won’t. You can sodding well come with me and buy me enough whisky to wash the taste of today out of my mouth. I hope you haven’t spend any of this month’s salary.’ Gene grabbed Alex by the arm and dragged her through the double doors.

 

 

*********

 

 

The following morning, Gene’s mood was poisonous. His arm was obviously no better, and the hangover wasn’t helping. Alex had watched him sink a vat of whisky – at least he’d had the sense to let Luigi call him a taxi, otherwise Alex had been wondering whether she’d have to let him sleep it off on her sofa. To be strictly accurate, Gene had no sense left with which to argue – Ray and Chris had poured him into the cab, and Ray had gone with him to pour him out at the other end, and presumably crashed chez Hunt for the night. 

 

 

Now they were all suffering his hangover as well as their own; it was quiet enough in CID to hear the _hiss-tick-hiss-boom_ of Shaz’s Walkman as she waded through the week’s filing. Ray was snoozing at his desk, Chris was sifting through statements from witnesses to the shooting at St Katherine’s Dock yesterday; Alex was marking up the forensic accountant’s report on Dingwalls before she went over to the Shadwell depot to bring in the directors. By 11am she was ready to leave, but she had to get Gene to have a word with the Super about his brother in law. 

 

 

She opened the door to Hunt’s office gently, and poked her head in. ‘Guv?’ she said softly. 

 

 

‘Has knocking gone out of fashion?’ came the response in a snarl.

 

 

‘Sorry – I thought the quieter the better,’ she said, with a placatory smile.

 

 

Gene gave her a look from bloodshot eyes, but said nothing. Alex took that as a sign to continue, so she slid in and pushed the door to. ‘Guv, I need to bring the Dingwalls directors in. Have you spoken to the Super?’

 

 

‘I’m fighting the urge to throw up, Drake, and my head’s going to come off if I move from this exact position. Giving the Super bad news is not on my radar at this precise moment.’

 

 

‘Do you want me to...’

 

 

‘No.’

 

 

Gene spoke a little too forcefully, and the effort clearly cost him. Alex knew how it felt, so she gave him a sympathetic smile and left his office, returning two minutes later with three paracetamol and a pint glass of warm water. ‘Take this, Gene.’

 

 

‘I’ll throw up.’

 

 

‘Well, either way it’ll be better than this. Go on, Guv.’ She held them out to him, and after a moment, he obeyed. ‘Anything for a quiet life,’ he muttered. He took the pills in his left hand and tossed them into his mouth, then taking the glass from her in the same hand. He took a mouthful of water and grimaced. ‘What the f...?’

 

 

‘Warm water with some sugar stirred in. You’re dehydrated and hypoglycaemic, so this is the best thing. Go on, Gene, finish it,’ she smiled. ‘Apart from anything else, it’ll get the painkiller into your system quicker.

 

 

‘A humane killer is what I need, but I suppose you’re the nearest thing to it.’

 

 

‘Stop being such a baby. Drink it.’

 

 

He drank it.

 

 

‘Now go away, Bolly, and leave me in peace. Tell those arsewipes out there to stay away unless they want their bollocks stapling to their eyebrows.’

 

 

Refraining from laughing out loud, Alex left him to it. 

 

 

Less than an hour later, DCI Hunt emerged from his office, still pale, but alive and upright. ‘Drake – in.’ He stood at his door, waiting till Alex scooted past him. 

 

 

‘Right. What do I need to tell the Super?’

 

 

‘McElhinney is probably the leader of this scam – as the finance director he’s best placed to disguise the fraud, but the operations director probably designed it, as it’s all based around logistics. I doubt that the whole board is in on it – they’d make far more with a trade sale if they wanted cash out of the business. I want to look at McElhinney’s personal finances – what’s the betting he’s living beyond his means? I’ve been to have a look at his house – big flash villa in Chigwell, with a brand new silver Jag XJS Coupé sitting in the drive, which presumably belongs to his wife. McElhinney drives an XJ6 – the other directors have BMW 320s as company cars.’

 

 

Alex drew breath as Gene held up a hand to stop her. ‘How sure are you that McElhinney’s on the take? Am I going to embarrass Dorney and dump myself in the shit for no good reason?’

 

 

‘Don’t think so, Guv. The forensic accountant seems amazed that he’s got away with it for so long. He reckons the other directors are pretty slack, happy to let the FD have control and feed them fat salaries with fatter dividends at the year end. Well, until the new non-exec director was appointed...’

 

 

‘Enough, Bolly. Do I look like I read the Financial Times? I couldn’t give a rat’s knacker about greedy bastards ripping each other off. As long as you’re 100% sure of your facts. If I give Dorney a red face without watertight evidence, he’ll pluck me one short and curly hair at a time. Which will mean me doing the same to you after. At the front desk.’ He glared at her. 

 

 

‘If you let me bring McElhinney and the others in for questioning today, I’ll have your watertight evidence, Guv.’

 

 

‘I can’t bring the Super’s brother-in-law in here without warning him first. Shit. _Shit_. Bastard _shit_.’

 

 

He fumed silently for thirty seconds. Alex waited. Gene picked up the phone and dialled, but when he tried to lift the phone to his ear, it fell from his grasp and crashed to the desk, drawing a thesaurus of expletives from him. Alex picked up the phone and replaced it, only to get a bollocking. ‘Leave the fucking thing...’

 

 

‘You’ve got to get your arm seen by a doctor, Gene...’

 

 

‘Fuck off, Drake. You’re not my bloody mother.’

 

 

He picked up the phone with his left hand, dialled, and spoke. ‘It’s DCI Hunt – I need to see the Super. Now, preferably, darling.’

 

 

A pause, then Gene dropped the phone back on its cradle. 

 

 

‘Come on, Drake – you can tell the Super what you’ve just told me. He’s just back from playing golf with the funny hand-shake mob, so we’d better hope he’s had a good round.’ 

 

 

Superintendent Jeremy Dorney had indeed had a good round – he’d thrashed two silks from King’s Bench Walk, and come within spitting distance of the club record for his handicap. The good mood didn’t last long, though, once Gene had told him about Dingwalls. Dorney’s expression darkened as Alex went through her evidence, and when she stopped, neither man spoke. Gene broke into the silence. ‘Sir, if I could suggest...’

 

 

‘Yes, DCI Hunt, if it’s an idea that will stop me from being thrown out of my house. My wife isn’t going to like this.’

 

 

‘Why don’t you have a word with your oppo at Wood Street? The City of London Police can take this on – they’ve got a specialist fraud department, so it’s logical for DI Drake to defer to her more expert colleagues on the City’s force,’ said Gene.

 

 

‘Ah, yes, Hunt. You could be right. DI Drake, you’ve done well with this, but you’d agree, I think, that it needs more specialised resources than you have available here.’

 

 

Alex, fuming at Gene’s suggestion, leapt down the Super’s throat. ‘No, sir, actually....’ she stopped suddenly, aware of Gene giving her the laser beam treatment. She glanced across at him, and sighed. Looking back at the Super, she smiled wearily. ‘Actually, sir, on reflection, you’re quite right. Those clever chaps in the Square Mile are better equipped to handle money matters, aren’t they? BSDs, I’m sure, all of them.’ she beamed at him.

 

 

‘I’m sorry to take this away from you, DI Drake,’ said Dorney, soothingly. ‘I’m sure you’re well informed about business, but you can see the rationale here.’

 

 

‘Yes, sir,’ she said between gritted teeth.

 

 

Dorney got to his feet; Gene and Alex followed suit. Dorney held out his hand to Gene, who took it as though grasping hot coals; he showed no reaction as Dorney shook his hand, but Alex knew it must have been agony. Serves him bloody well right, she thought, livid with him for dumping her off the case. 

 

 

She waited, seething, until they were out of flatfoot territory, but in the corridor between the front desk and CID, Alex rounded on Gene. ‘How....’

 

 

But before she could utter the accusation, Gene put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Sorry, Bolls. There was nothing else I could do.’

 

 

‘But to imply...’

 

 

‘I know. So does he. But they do have a specialist fraud squad in the City, so no-one’s going to question the handover. It’s not about you. Once the story breaks, the gossips will be looking at Dorney, not CID. He couldn’t keep the case here – you must see that.’

 

 

Gene’s face was ashen, his eyes like stagnant water. Alex gripped his arm and propelled him back towards the main entrance. ‘Come on, Gene. You need painkillers and sleep – you can kip at the flat for a couple of hours.’ 

 

 

‘Just give me your key. I don’t need escorting.’

 

 

‘I don’t trust you to go upstairs, and the hair of the dog is the last thing you need. Anyway you don’t know where I keep the paracetamol. Do as you’re told, for once in your bolshie Manc life.’

 

 

They bickered all the way over the road and up two flights of stairs to Alex’s flat; but as soon as Alex opened the front door, Gene collapsed on the sofa, moaning. 

 

 

‘Oh, listen to the whimpering and the whining,’ said Alex pointedly, remembering Gene’s words after he’d rescued her from the Cales. 

 

 

‘Stoney-hearted witch you are,’ muttered Gene.

 

 

‘I’ve no sympathy – this is self-inflicted.’

 

 

‘Bloody isn’t. Bloody woman stabbed me.’

 

 

‘With a shoe.’ Alex was laughing at him.

 

 

‘It was a stiletto.’

 

 

‘It was a rubber-tipped heel. You’re a big girl’s blouse.’

 

 

That got the blaze back in his eyes.

 

 

‘It’s bloody agony!’

 

 

‘I told you to go to the doctor. Anyway, I was talking about your alcohol poisoning. You can’t blame that on anyone else.’

 

 

‘I thought a shot of whisky would help the pain.’

 

 

‘It might have done. Except that you chased it down with the rest of the bottle. I’m surprised you didn’t end up in casualty.’ Alex left Gene swearing at her and went in search of analgesics and more sugar water. 

 

 

Gene didn’t protest when she handed him the pills, but swallowed it all down without a word. He tried to lie down, but the sofa wasn’t long enough for him. ‘Use the bed, Gene. You need to sleep.’

 

 

She dragged him up and pushed him through to the bedroom. ‘Here,’ she said, helping him off with his jacket. He sat on the bed, tried to take off his tie with one hand, then submitted to Alex doing it for him. He failed to kick off his boots, but gave in to a smirk when Alex knelt and pulled them off his feet. 

 

 

‘Keep going, love. I’m feeling better already.’

 

 

‘Tosser. Lie down and shut up. Now give me your arm.’

 

 

Alex sat on the edge of the bed and undid Gene’s cuff, pushing the sleeve up above his elbow. He watched her in silence, his eyes glittering.

 

 

She held his right arm in one hand and with the other began to probe gently around the elbow joint, with no pain response. She worked carefully down his arm, squeezing the muscle tissue and turning his wrist to feel the radius and ulna move beneath the skin. Gene winced as his arm turned. Alex worked in tiny circles, until she hit a spot that made Gene jump and pull his arm away. ‘Jesus!’ he hissed. Alex took his wrist again and drew his arm towards her. 

 

 

‘You’ve bruised the nerve, just here...’

 

 

‘I didn’t bruise it – the Fanny-Wotsit woman hit me!’ Gene growled, then hissed at the pain of Alex touching the place with her thumb. 

 

 

‘Relax. If you tense up it’ll hurt more.’

 

 

‘How can I relax when you’re ramming your thumb right through my bloody arm?’ 

 

 

‘Shut up,’ said Alex, softly. ‘Lie back and close your eyes. Pretend you’re dead. I’ll be back in a minute.’

 

 

In less time she was back, with a tiny bottle in her hand. She unscrewed the top, squeezed a few drops on to her palm, and rubbed her hands together to warm the essential oil. Gene opened his eyes as the scent hit him. 

 

 

‘This is a mix of marjoram, ginger and black pepper with sweet almond oil. They’re all quite hot, which will help the muscles relax. Shut your eyes. Go to sleep.’

 

 

She began to smooth the oil into Gene’s arm, lightly, slowly stroking her palm along the muscles repeatedly, soothing, warming, stretching. She so liked doing this, liked the hypnotic movement, the feel of skin against skin, knowing that she was easing pain and offering healing. Whoever it was made no difference – it was human contact, the most ancient form of medicine.

 

 

Except that it did make a difference, having Gene under her hands. However much she tried to deny it, she was very aware of him, hyper-sensitive to his responses; she kept her eyes on his arm, avoided looking at his face. Concentrating fiercely on the work, she shoved her feelings back into their box and focused on healing, on muscle fibres and neural dendrites, on lymph and haemoglobin...

 

 

‘There’s another muscle which needs a bit of attention, love. Bit of a rub would do it the world of good...’ Gene’s voice, soft and smoky, shattered her concentration, and she dropped his arm as though it were radioactive. She stood up, gave him one killing look, and stalked out. ‘Arsehole. You’re so bloody predictable. I don’t know why I bothered,’ she spat as she opened the front door, slamming behind her. 

 

 

She didn’t see Gene’s face as she left, didn’t see him wrapping his arms around his head in shame, despairing at his crass stupidity, cringing at losing the intimacy he had craved for so many months, throwing away the best chance he’d had with her. 

 

 

Alex saw nothing of that. She blanked out Gene Hunt, erased the picture of herself as a complete idiot, squashed down the hurt and humiliation, let the anger rise up and send her flying back to the office. She snatched up the Dingwalls files and dumped them on Shaz’s desk. ‘Pack them up and leave them with Viv. We’re handing them over to Wood Street fraud squad.’

 

 

Before Shaz could get a word out, Alex added: ‘Don’t ask. I’m taking the afternoon off, and I’m not contactable until tomorrow.’

 

 

‘Where’s the Guv?’ Ray called across the room. 

 

 

‘I neither know nor care,’ snapped Alex, and slammed out of the office, leaving a shocked silence behind her, then a ripple of catcalls and laughter which chased her from the building. _Fuck ‘em. Fuck the lot of them_ , she growled to herself. She marched to Tower Hill tube and got on a westbound train. 1981 London awaited her, and she had holiday owing.


	4. Retreat

Alex hadn’t been at her desk for more than 15 seconds before the figure of DCI Hunt loomed up. ‘Morning, DI Drake. A word, if you wouldn’t mind.’

 

 

He returned to his office and waited for her, closing the door once she was inside his sanctum. He looked at her for a moment, unreadable; she glared back at him, chin out, aggressive, waiting for the battle to start.

 

 

‘You OK?’ he asked.

 

 

‘Never better.’

 

 

‘Where were you last night?’

 

 

‘Out.’

 

 

‘I waited for you.’

 

 

Alex raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

 

 

‘Where did you spend the night, Bolly?’

 

 

‘Out.’

 

 

‘Were you with Evan White?’

 

 

‘No.’

 

 

‘Where, then?’

 

 

‘I’m not aware of a clause in my contract which says I have to account to you for my whereabouts off-duty.’

 

 

‘You flounced out of your flat and came here. Then you flounced out of here and vanished. I know you didn’t go home because I was there waiting for you.’

 

 

‘How sweet.’

 

 

They were squaring up to each other now, unaware that there was utter silence in the office as everyone was listening to this fascinating exchange.

 

 

‘Did you go to the Prices?’

 

 

Alex snorted. ‘No.’

 

 

‘So – what – you got yourself picked up by some tosser in braces and went back to his place. You’re not so different from your prozzie chums, are you?’

 

 

‘It’s none of your business, Mr Hunt,’ Alex retorted with exaggerated civility, ‘but you can rest assured that I had a marvellous time.’

 

 

Gene stood tall, breathing deeply and crossing his arms. Muscles twitched in his jaw as he ground his teeth in muted fury. 

 

 

Alex gave him a quizzical look. ‘Is that it? Can I get on with some work, now?’ She went to open the door, but Gene blocked her way.

 

 

‘I don’t want to know about your sordid love life, DI Drake. I couldn’t care less if you work your way through the West Ham first eleven, as long as you turn up on time in the morning.’

 

 

‘As you see...’ Alex beamed at him, but her eyes were below zero.

 

 

Gene glowered at her, but after a long moment, moved out of her way.

 

 

********

 

 

‘Yes, Andy, that’s fine. I’ll see you at midday. Yup. Bye.’

 

 

Alex put the phone down and scribbled a note to herself; she went to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, and as the kettle began to boil, Gene lobbed up. Alex waved the coffee jar at him, but he shook his head. ‘Alex...’

 

 

She interrupted him. ‘There’s a DI coming over from Wood Street in a while to pick up the Dingwalls stuff. Do you want to see him?’

 

 

‘No. Alex...’

 

 

‘I don’t want a row, Gene.’

 

 

‘No. Look. I wanted to say... er, thanks for yesterday.’

 

 

‘It was nothing. I’d have done the same for anyone.’

 

 

Gene nodded, digesting this news. ‘Hmm.’

 

 

There was a silence.

 

 

‘So – we’re OK, then?’

 

 

Alex shrugged. ‘Yup.’

 

 

‘No hard feelings?’

 

 

‘Nope.’

 

 

‘Hmm.’ Gene shifted uncomfortably, but stood his ground. Alex took her cup of coffee and went over to Chris to go through the list of phone numbers he’d been checking. 

 

 

********

 

 

By 1pm, DI Andrew Griffith had left Fenchurch East with the Dingwalls file and an off-the-record word in his ear from Alex about the Super’s connection. Since the City of London Police was a completely separate force to the Met, the Super could be squeaky clean, abandon his brother-in-law to the mercies of Blind Justice and save himself any embarrassing questions from the Commissioner. 

 

 

Alex poked her head round Gene’s door to brief him. ‘Guv? Andy Griffith is on his way now to pick up McElhinney, Burnham and Roberts for questioning. Do you want to let the Super know, or shall I?’

 

 

‘I’ll ring him in a minute. Come in and shut the door, Bolly.’

 

 

She complied, albeit without enthusiasm.

 

 

‘Where were you last night?’

 

 

‘I told you. Out.’ 

 

 

‘I’d have gone home when you came back, you know. There was no need to stay away.’

 

 

‘Sure. Whatever.’ She wasn’t giving an inch. 

 

 

Gene heaved a sigh. ‘Go on then, spit it out. Say what you’ve to say.’

 

 

‘There’s nothing to say.’

 

 

Gene raised both eyebrows and gave her an old-fashioned look.

 

 

Alex tutted. ‘I, er, overreacted, OK? Silly of me, eh?’

 

 

Gene dropped his gaze. ‘Well, I suppose...’

 

 

‘What else did I expect, after all?’ 

 

 

Gene looked as though he’d been kicked by his favourite pony. There was another awkward silence.

 

 

‘Um... this evening...’ Alex said. ‘Don’t worry about it. Not your thing. No need to turn up. Carol Watkins has rounded up a fair few.’

 

 

‘You don’t want me there?’

 

 

Alex shrugged. ‘If you want to come, you’re welcome. But there’s no need.’

 

 

And she glided out, leaving Gene staring at the space where she’d been.


	5. Connecting

Carol Watkins had indeed rounded up a few. There must have been nearly 100 people stuffed into the canteen, including, she noted with astonishment, Superintendent Dorney. Alex looked around, saw Shaz and Chris sitting as though welded together; Ray was sitting with a clutch of CID faces, and Viv was in the front row, looking rather fit in civvies, long legs stretched in front of him. No sign of Gene – hardly surprising, but Alex was annoyed to note the twinge of disappointment.

 

 

Carol clapped her hands for silence, and, impressively, shut the whole room up instantly. ‘Right, you hard bunch. Thank you for turning up. We won’t keep you from your beer for too long, but I think you’ll enjoy the next little while. You all know Detective Inspector Alex Drake; she hasn’t been at Fenchurch East for long, but she’s made something of a name for herself, and not just for effective policing.’

 

 

‘She makes the most convincing prozzie in the division!’ the heckle came from the back of the room, where CID was huddled. The room erupted.

 

 

‘Thank you, DS Carling, for that endorsement...’

 

 

‘I was referring to DI Drake’s undercover skills, of course,’ called Ray, playing up to the audience.

 

 

‘I put you under cover in a minute, Ray.’ Sgt Watkins let the steel show for a moment, and Ray discovered the beauty of silence.

 

 

Carol turned to Alex, who, in a very casual grey jersey and leggings, with only socks on her feet and her hair tied back, looked about 17 and innocent as the Andrex puppy. 

 

 

‘DI Drake,’ said Carol, ‘is going to show us some ways to help heal injuries and deal with the everyday stresses and strains of the job. No more excuses for sick notes because of a pulled muscle... PC Turner.’

 

 

The room roared again. Keith Turner was a joker who’d been known to phone in with a strained chuckle muscle.

 

 

‘Alex – over to you, said Carol, with a broad smile.

 

 

Alex took a deep breath and launched into her introduction. Using Carol as a model, she ran through the parts of the body most vulnerable to injury, and most prone to stress. She called Shaz Granger up to tell her story, and got her a round of applause – Shaz’s bravery had not gone unnoticed at Fenchurch East. 

 

 

Alex released her back to Chris, and looked around the room. ‘OK. I need a volunteer. someone who’s got an injury. A muscle strain, back pain – headache?’

 

 

Ray climbed on to his chair and stuck his backside out: ‘I’ve got a pain in the arse, otherwise known as DC Skelton – can you help me with that?’ 

 

 

Guffaws, as Ray was dragged off his chair by Poirot. Alex saw a hand in the air. ‘Viv?’ The courteous desk sergeant stood up. ‘I slipped a disk two years ago, and it’s given me gip ever since.’

 

 

‘Ok, Viv, good – come on up.’ Alex waved him forward, but a figure moved from the shadows in the corner of the room and pushed through the crowd. ‘No you don’t, Skip. My need’s greater than yours, so rest your buns, Viv.’

 

 

Gene Hunt stood in front of Alex and stuck his right hand out. ‘See this? The long arm of the law. It’s been severely damaged by an ungrateful member of the criminal classes, and it’s rendered me ’armless.’

 

 

Cheers from the room. Alex tried not to look too gobsmacked, but the evil grin on Gene’s face was her undoing. 

 

 

‘DCI Hunt – what an unexpected, er, pleasure,’ she said, unable to stop the smile spreading across her face. She got Gene to sit astride the chair, his arm resting on the chair back. He was wearing a black T-shirt, Alex noted, so he’d come prepared. She caught his eye for a moment – a glance that was not lost on the more observant in the room.

 

 

‘So, DCI Hunt. Tell us where it hurts.’

 

 

Alex waited for the wisecrack, but Gene was full of surprises. ‘I was attacked yesterday by an individual wielding a sharp object, and one blow connected rather heavily with my forearm. I gather that the blow has bruised a nerve, which is why it’s so painful, and why I can’t even pick up a pint glass in this hand.’

 

 

Sympathetic groans from the floor. Alex nodded, and taking Gene’s arm in her hands, she asked, provocatively, ‘What does the doctor say?’

 

 

‘Dr Spurge confirmed the diagnosis, and prescribed codeine and a sling.’

 

 

It took Alex a couple of seconds to process that one. There would be a reckoning later, she thought.

 

 

‘OK, then. Let’s see what we can do. Often I work with oils – essential oils in a carrier, like sweet almond oil. But it’s not, er, essential.’ She smiled at the watching faces. ‘The only things you really need are a pair of hands. If you don’t have any of those, feet will do. Human touch – it’s real life magic. The first form of medicine, and still the best.’

 

 

As she spoke, Alex stroked Gene’s damaged arm with her palm in unhurried, deliberate movements, working from the wrist up to the elbow. ‘A bruised nerve is very painful, and extremely sensitive. So I have to be careful how I touch – I can’t use my thumb, for instance...’ she touched her thumb gently to the sore spot, and Gene flinched. ‘So this soothing stroke starts to relax the muscles and warm them.’

 

 

She worked quietly for a few moments, till Carol chipped in. ‘How come you do this? It doesn’t seem to fit with your day job.’

 

 

‘My daughter was born at 31 weeks; I’d heard that massage was really good for premature babies, so I learned. It did marvels for my daughter, and I loved it, so did some more training. It’s a lovely skill to have, and a good antidote to the day job,’ she smiled across at Carol. 

 

 

Holding Gene’s arm above the elbow, she let his forearm dangle. ‘It’s important to relax the whole muscle group, because an injury makes you compensate for the pain. So manipulating the upper arm and shoulder will stop the shoulder muscles seizing up.’

 

 

She shook Gene’s arm gently. ‘Relax. Let me take the weight – let go,’ she murmured to him, shaking his arm to help him relax. She squeezed the big deltoid muscle over his shoulder and probed the joint, stretching and rolling. Gene’s face flickered as she worked the tender spots. ‘You know the biceps,’ she told the audience, squeezing the muscle on Gene’s arm, ‘but with this injury it’s going to be the triceps that gets sore, here,’ she pressed with the heel of her hand, and Gene groaned softly, shutting his eyes for a moment.

 

 

‘I’d normally take up to an hour at a time to work this kind of injury, and it would need a number of sessions to recover properly. I’m not a healer, by the way – DCI Hunt’s body is doing all its own healing, just using the extra help I’m providing.’

 

 

Alex rested Gene’s forearm on her own, with her hands over the damaged nerve. ‘I’m going to concentrate on the bruise for a while. Let the heat do its work. Gene, can you tell us what you can feel?’ 

 

 

The big copper struggled to find his voice for a moment, and cleared his throat. ‘Er... your hands are red hot. They’re burning...’ 

 

 

There was complete silence in the room for a few minutes.

 

 

‘Good. That’s great, actually. Tell me how it feels now.’

 

 

‘It’s getting hotter. Feels like it’s on fire, inside...’ Gene shifted in the chair as though he wanted to pull his arm away.

 

 

‘Stick with it – I know it’s uncomfortable, but it’s doing great.’

 

 

Someone cleared their throat in the audience. It was the Super. ‘DI Drake – can I ask you a question?’

 

 

‘Yes, sir.’

 

 

‘Where’s this heat coming from? Are you using some kind of deep heat cream?’

 

 

‘No, sir, just my hands. The heat’s an energy that we can all generate. In fact, I bet that some people in this room can feel heat in their own hands now. It’s a natural talent we’ve all got.’

 

 

She turned back to Gene. ‘How does it feel now?’

 

 

‘It’s getting a bit cooler. The pain... I can’t tell if it’s the injury, or just heat.’

 

 

‘Good,’ said Alex.’ You’re doing brilliantly,’ she added softly.

 

 

She fielded a few more questions from the floor, then turned back to Gene. ‘How does it feel now?’

 

 

‘Good. Still warm, but the pain’s stopped. Feels different.’ Gene frowned, puzzling over the oddness of it. Alex worked a few strokes along his arm, dispersing the heat and bringing the muscles back to life, then put Gene’s arm on the chairback and stepped away. ‘Gene – does it feel OK to stop?’ He nodded hesitantly. 

 

 

‘Carol – how long did that take?’ asked Alex

 

 

‘Just under 15 minutes.’

 

 

‘Great. Have we got time to see some stressbusting techniques?’

 

 

Murmurs of assent, and heads nodding.

 

 

‘Who else wants to be a guinea-pig?’

 

 

A dozen hands went up.

 

 

‘Naff off. I’m not budging,’ said Gene, firmly. ‘I have to work with this woman every bloody day and she gives me more stress than I can deal with. This is payback time.’ 

 

 

The laughter was good-humoured, the mood in the room markedly different from the beginning. Gene sat up and took a deep breath. 

 

 

‘Do your worst, love.’

 

 

Alex, her back to the audience, gave Gene a slit-eyed, dangerous look. ‘Famous last words...’

 

 

He returned her gaze, poker-faced. Alex grinned at him, then turned to the waiting crowd. ‘OK, first some nice easy relaxation techniques, then some wake-up techniques. These are all really simple and can be learned really quickly. In 10 or 15 minutes you can undo much of the stress of the day for someone – even five minutes will make a big difference. Watch...’

 

 

Putting her hands on Gene’s shoulders, she scrunched them a couple of times, squeezing and pressing along the ridge of muscle over his collar bone, from his spine out to his arms and back in. Pushing his head forward, she pressed up along his neck with her thumbs, going right up to the base of his skull, then all the way down his spine to his waist. Making fists, she knuckled up the long ridge beside his spine and back down, then stroked slowly and smoothly along each rib. Using her fists like soft hammers, she beat rhythmically all over his back for a couple of minutes, before chopping across his shoulders with the edge of her hands. ‘This looks a bit violent, but actually it feels wonderful – very relaxing.’ 

 

 

She checked her patient with a quick glance at his face – eyes closed, his face was a picture of bliss. ‘OK, Gene?’ she asked softly. ‘ _Mmm_...’ came the inarticulate response. 

 

 

Then putting her palms on the sides of his neck, she rubbed the solid muscles in small circles. She worked up into his hairline, fingertips circling his skull and massaging slowly. She pulled his head back against her stomach and worked her fingertips across his face – jawline, cheeks, forehead, circling and smoothing, working her way back to his neck and shoulders, setting him upright, letting his head fall forward a little. 

 

 

Her hands resting on his shoulders, she checked his state of consciousness. ‘How are you doing, Gene?’

 

 

‘ _Mmm_...’ and then something that might have been ‘..don’t stop...’ but was not entirely clear.

 

 

Alex put a finger to her lips, hushing them, stopping any laughter from the entranced observers. She grinned at them, giving the thumbs-up at the sight of the spellbound, half-conscious Hunt.

 

 

‘Now the five-minute wake-up,’ she said.

 

 

Leaning her forearms on his shoulders, she pressed down with all her weight on one side, then the other, rocking him from side to side, stretching the tension out of his shoulders. Then turning her hip into his spine, she pulled his shoulders back, stretching his pectorals and compressing the big trapezius muscles in his back. Pushing him forward, so he was leaning against the chairback, she scrubbed with her fingertips all over his back, through the T-shirt fabric, in swift, random movements, then drummed her fingertips lightly, rapidly, across his back, over his skull, down his neck, around to the top of his chest, down his arms. Picking up his right hand, Alex took each finger in turn and wiggled it, then shook the whole arm; repeated with the left. Then after quick, strong sweeping movements across his back, she finished by running her thumbs fast down his spine and back up, making Gene shudder violently and open his eyes as though electrocuted.

 

 

‘You’re done, DCI Hunt.’

 

 

There was a stunned silence for a few seconds. 

 

 

‘Bloody hellfire,’ intoned Gene, looking shocked to the core. 

 

 

Alex, with a broad smile, turned to the audience. ‘I think DCI Hunt deserves a round of applause for being such a good sport,’ she declared, prompting whistles, catcalls and cheers from the assembled law enforcers.

 

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

It took a while to escape – Gene led a posse across the road to Luigi’s, leaving Alex to answer strings of eager questions for the best part of an hour. Finally able to go home, she was too exhausted to face a rowdy bar, and headed straight upstairs. But sitting on the top step, a bottle of champagne and two glasses beside him, was the guinea-pig. 

 

 

‘Where’ve you been, Bolls?’

 

 

‘How did you know I’d come straight up?’

 

 

‘I know more than you think, love.’

 

 

‘How did you get the Super there? It was you, I take it.’

 

 

‘He’s in the doghouse with his missus. He didn’t need much persuading.’

 

 

‘Carol was delighted. She thinks you’re god.’

 

 

‘And what about you, Bolls?’

 

 

She smiled. ‘Come on, let me past. I’m beyond speech.’

 

 

‘Not possible, Bolly. The world would stop turning if you were ever lost for words.’ Gene stood up and let Alex get to the flat. She opened the door and let Gene follow her inside. He put the glasses on the coffee table and popped the champagne cork, spilling a bit of fizz on the carpet. ‘Bolly, Bolly?’

 

 

It was, too. Bollinger. Alex was taken aback – she hadn’t believed Gene Hunt capable of such thoughtfulness. It was almost... She stopped herself even thinking the word. She took a glass from him, noticing only then that he’d been holding it in his right hand.

 

 

‘Arm feeling better, Gene?’

 

 

‘As you can see, Bolls.’

 

 

He raised his own glass to her. ‘Here’s to you, DI Miracleworker. Thanks.’ He knocked back the glassful and poured himself another. ‘You’re full of surprises, you.’

 

 

Alex took a swig of bubbly. ‘You’re a fine one to talk, Mr Hunt.’

 

 

For a long moment they looked at each other, until Alex felt herself start to blush, and dropped her gaze. Feeling suddenly dizzy, she sank on to the sofa.

 

 

‘Alex? You OK?’ Gene put a hand beneath her chin and tipped her head up; she was pale, and shivery.

 

 

‘I just need to sleep for a bit. I always get like this afterwards...’

 

 

Gene took her glass and put it on the table. ‘Lie down, then.’ Alex obeyed, incapable of independent thought. She felt him pull off her boots, then after a moment, felt the duvet being tucked round her. ‘It’s freezing in here,’ he muttered, and seconds later Alex heard the hiss of the gas fire being lit.

 

 

‘I’ll wake up in a bit. I’ll come down later,’ she murmured. She felt the touch of his hand on her head for a second, and heard the door clicking shut as he left.

 

 

xxxxxxxxxx

 

 

She was sweltering. Alex kicked off the duvet and sat up, completely disorientated for a moment. Then she remembered, and clambered off the sofa, heading first to the loo and then to the kitchen for three glasses of water in quick succession. 9.30pm – she’d slept for about an hour.

 

 

She was starving. Pulling on her boots, she looked for the key to the front door, but couldn’t find it; she opened the door and put it on the latch – she was only nipping downstairs for some food, and the place was full of coppers, so it’d be a brave burglar who’d have a go.

 

 

The first thing she saw was Gene, sitting at the top of the stairs, wreathed in smoke; he didn’t turn, but shifted sideways to make room for her.

 

 

‘Morning, Aurora,’ he said, as she sat down next to him. ‘Had a good kip?’

 

 

‘Yes. Thanks... What are you doing up here?’

 

 

‘Thinking.’

 

 

‘You usually do your thinking over a glass of whisky.’

 

 

‘I’ve got Bolly, Bolly.’ He waved the now empty bottle of champagne.

 

 

‘Bet you’ve not eaten, have you? I’m ravenous. I was going to get something from Luigi and bring it back up. Want to join me?’

 

 

‘Yes, but I’ll go.’ 

 

 

‘No, really – I could do with the exercise. I’ll be back in two secs.’ Putting a hand on Gene’s knee Alex levered herself up, and ran downstairs to the bar. She ordered a big plate of antipasti and another bottle of Bollinger; Luigi promised to bring it up to her in ten minutes. Before she could go back up, Alex was collared by Shaz. 

 

 

‘Hi Ma’am – we missed you. Are you all right?’

 

 

‘Thanks, Shaz. I needed a cat nap – bit intense, this evening.’

 

 

‘I’m not surprised – it was amazing. The Guv left after half an hour – he looked a bit shattered as well.’

 

 

‘Shaz – who’s Aurora?’

 

 

‘Princess Aurora? The Sleeping Beauty, Ma’am. Why do you ask?’

 

 

‘Something I overheard.’ Alex smiled to herself, but it wasn’t lost on Shaz, who filed it away with all the other snippets of evidence she’d been gathering.

 

 

Alex leapt back up the stairs, to find Gene in the flat, stretched out on the sofa, a glass of whisky in his hand. ‘Helped myself to your whisky.’ He sat up and stretched his legs towards the fire. 

 

 

‘It’s yours. At least I haven’t bought any since I’ve been here, so it must be.’

 

 

Alex plonked herself at the other end of the sofa. ‘You OK, Gene? You’re very quiet.’

 

 

‘I feel good, Bolls. Very mellow.’

 

 

‘Better than sex, isn’t it?’

 

 

‘What, getting a rub-down in front of every joker and shit-stirrer in the station? Wouldn’t go that far.’ He paused for a swig of Scotch. ‘And if you really think that, you need to find a man who knows what he’s doing.’ 

 

 

He gave her a wicked sideways glance, but before she could retort, there was a knock at the door, and Luigi pushed through it with a laden tray. ‘Signorina? Your supper.’ 

 

 

Luigi stopped dead when he saw Gene, but a broad grin spread across his face as he put the tray down. ‘Ahh – you are here, Signor...

 

 

‘No, I’m not, Luigi. Not here. Comprende?’

 

 

The Italian smiled, and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Capisco. Bene. Enjoy your supper alone, signorina,’ he chuckled, and took himself off. ‘Buona notte!’ drifted back from the stairwell.

 

 

Gene uncorked the second bottle of champagne and poured them both a glass. ‘Here’s to you, love – Mrs DI Pervy Bolly Kecks Posh Tart Hot Hands Drake. Glad to know you.’ He raised his glass to her..

 

 

‘And you, Gene. Here’s to surprises,’ said Alex, clinking glasses with him.

 

 

Gene threw back the champagne and set upon the food in front of them. Ripping apart the ciabatta, he stuffed a bit with slices of mortadella and took a huge bite. Alex speared an artichoke heart and moaned with pleasure as she ate it. ‘God, that’s good. I’m so hungry...’

 

 

They wolfed their way through the lot as though they hadn’t eaten for a week, then slumped back against the cushions, stuffed. 

 

 

Alex looked at Gene, sizing him up. He waited. 

 

 

‘Was your mother a Tchaikovksy nut, or something?’

 

 

Gene scowled. ‘How’d you work that out, love?’

 

 

‘Aurora, Eugene...’

 

 

As it happens, you’re right. About Aurora, anyway. Mum was obsessed with that ballet; she wanted a daughter, really, so she could call her Aurora.’

 

 

‘So you were called after Eugene Onegin?’

 

 

‘Who?’

 

 

‘Eugene Onegin - the Tchaikovsky opera. No?’

 

 

‘No. Gene Autry, if you must know.’

 

 

‘The singing cowboy? But the dates aren’t right. You’re too old.’

 

 

‘Oh, thanks, love. Just kick me while you’re at it, why don’t you?’

 

 

She smiled at him. ‘Sorry. But I thought Gene Autry was ‘fifties.’ 

 

 

‘He was, mostly. I did a turn at the Christmas do, the first year I joined the police. Dressed up as Gene Autry and sang Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer. The nickname stuck. And as my given name is Michael, I preferred Gene to Mike, as you might imagine.’ He glared at her, daring her to laugh.

 

 

She laughed. ‘Michael. Mike Hunt....’ She threw her head back and laughed till she wept. Gene watched her, a hint of a smile below the glittering eyes.

 

 

‘Sorry, sorry... I had a boyfriend called Michael Hunt a long time ago. He turned out to be one, too. Sorry,’ she said, between giggles. ‘You’re right – Gene suits you better.’ 

 

 

‘That’s not common knowledge, so if it gets out, I’ll know who to kill. Understood?’ he growled.

 

 

‘Capisco, signor.’

 

 

They talked, about work, about Luigi, about films. Alex got herself into trouble with films, kept forgetting what had come out when. Had to pretend she was an avid reader of movie mags, knew what was in production. 

 

 

Talk turned to Sam Tyler. ‘You remind me of him. Mouthy bastard. Teaching Chris all sorts. Taping interviews, doing forensics’ job for ‘em. Obsessed with the latest tricks. Some of ‘em made sense, but he’d gnaw the arse out of a dead mole if he thought there was some science behind it.’ Gene paused. ‘I miss him. Stupid sod, getting himself killed. Couldn’t even have a funeral...’

 

 

Alex reached out a hand to him, squeezed his arm. Gene cleared his throat, then leaned forward to pour himself another drink. He waved the bottle at Alex, but she shook her head.

 

 

‘My turn, Bolls.’

 

 

She waited. 

 

 

‘Your husband – where’s he?’

 

 

Alex thought for a moment. ‘Do you know, I have no idea? The last time I saw him he told me he was going back to his first wife. I was dumped for an older, stupider, boring bloody woman. They went off to Canada on holiday, and I’ve not seen him since. He phones Molly, but I only hear from his solicitor.’ She looked at Gene, the anger and hurt in her eyes. ‘Anything else? Want a list of my other failures? It’s a long bloody list...’ The tears welled, threatened to spill; she couldn’t look at him.

 

 

‘Come here, Bolls.’ Gene took her hand, pulled her close, wrapped his arms round her, and held her tight. 

 

 

After a few moments, Alex pushed herself away from him, smiled shyly at him as she wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘Sorry.’

 

 

Gene still had hold of her hand, and gave it a squeeze. He held her gaze for a second.

 

 

‘Alex... there is one other thing...’

 

 

She waited, scared of hearing something she didn’t want to know.

 

 

‘Where did you go last night?’

 

 

Relieved beyond measure, she smiled. ‘I went to Claridge’s.’

 

 

‘What, you met someone there?’

 

 

‘No, Gene, no-one. I needed somewhere to sleep, and I decided to blow a week’s money on a bit of luxury. It was wonderful,’ she chuckled at the expression on his face.

 

 

‘On your tod? What – you spent the whole evening alone?’

 

 

‘It’s what I needed. I was in no mood for company.’

 

 

‘What – you had dinner in your room, or something?’ Gene was bemused. Alex knew he hated eating alone.

 

 

‘No – the maitre d’ was sweet – found me a quiet table, fussed over me like a mother hen. Scared off a couple of sleazeballs. Not quite as scary as you, but his French was better.’

 

 

Gene laughed. Really laughed. It was a good sound. He reached for her, kissed her hair, pulled her round to face him, kissed her nose. ‘Come here, my love...’ 

 

 

Alex shifted so she was kneeling astride him, so she could wrap her arms tight round his head and kiss his laughing mouth. She closed off his past, and her future, and fell headlong.


End file.
